


You've Got Mail

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Inspired by a Movie, M/M, you've got mail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is just trying to keep his corner book shop, and also his mother’s legacy, afloat as bigger and cheaper book stores pop up left and right. When big-shot Derek Hale of Wolf Books decides to move in on his territory, hope seems all but lost…At least he has his internet pal—a charming, kind, and wonderful person full of advice and encouragement when he needs someone to lean on (something Derek Hale would know absolutely nothing about).</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got Mail

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the television show Teen Wolf or its characters. I do not own the movie You've Got Mail or its dialogue (which I've borrowed some of because that movie is ridiculously perfect and I am ridiculously imperfect...so there).
> 
> RE-POST. I was given some advice about how the story is somewhat flawed, and after several hours of staring blankly at the screen (and feeling guilty because I keep getting messages from people who were only partway through before I'd deleted it), I decided to add a couple of paragraphs towards the end and call it good. I've also decided I like how it is. I've written it the way I want it written, and I won't be editing it any further.
> 
> Thanks to those who offered their advice! I appreciate your constructive criticism. Enjoy.

Stiles wakes, and immediately he knows he didn't get enough sleep the night before. He never does when Matt stays over.

And speaking of....

“Matt,” Stiles mumbles into his pillow, one half-asleep arm escaping the confines of his bedspread and smacking into the warm, snoring figure beside him. “Matt, you're late.”

It isn't necessarily true, but it'll get him out of bed.

Which it does.

“Shit!” Matt curses, feet kicking free of the blankets entrapping them. He falls over the side of the bed, landing on the floor with an “Oof!” and scrambling to the dresser in the corner.

Stiles dozes contently, stretching across the bed and soaking in the warmth Matt has left behind as he listens to his boyfriend bungle around the bedroom and bathroom. 

“You know,” Matt says around what Stiles assumes is his toothbrush, “it must be nice owning your own business. Making your own hours. Sleeping in.”

Stiles stretches and turns over onto his back, opening one eye to smirk at the other man. “Yeah. It kind of rocks.”

Matt rolls his eyes, retreating into the bathroom to spit in the sink and emerging with a polo shirt halfway over his head. “Well, enjoy it. Some of us still have to answer to deadlines and shitty bosses.”

“Ah, the glamorous life of a photojournalist,” Stiles sighs, laughing as Matt smacks him in the side before leaning over and kissing him quickly. 

“Uck!” Matt says, shoving his feet into his shoes and heading for the bedroom door. “Brush your teeth.”

“Yes, _Dad_ ,” Stiles calls as the man disappears. “Don't forget your camera! It's on the table!”

“Got it!” comes Matt's reply, followed by the sound of the front door opening, then slamming shut.

Stiles stills, listening intently for any noise from the apartment. He sits up and throws his feet over the bed, stealthily (and unnecessarily) tip-toeing through the apartment and to the front door. He checks the peephole.

Nothing.

With a new sense of vigor usually only brought on by coffee and a sugar rush, he bounds to his laptop, which sits patiently on his dining room table. He sits and wiggles his finger on the touchpad until the password protection screen pops up, entering his password quickly, and smiling as the AOL screen and his beloved screen name, SHOPGUY, await him. He enters in the same password—who has time to remember twenty different passwords for twenty different accounts they don't even use half of?—and shifts impatiently in his chair, doing a strange little dance with his shoulders as he waits.

The welcome screen appears.

The mailbox pops up.

And...

“You've got mail!”

Stiles mouths the words along with the announcement, throwing triumphant fists into the air and releasing a happy sound. Sometimes he changes the settings—they have options like Conan O'Brian saying “I've got pinkeye” or Mick Jagger saying “You've got some letters” or, his personal favorite, that Russian cat from the _Cats and Dogs_ movie saying “You've Got Mailskie.” 

But ever since he started exchanging emails with METS57, he just can't help but love the classic “You've got mail!” jingle. Of all the combinations of words in all the _world_ , nothing excites him more than those three, in exactly that order.

_From: METS57  
Subject: Miguel_

_My dog's name is Miguel, though my niece and nephew refuse to call him anything other than “Dog.” Highly original.... Miguel is great at catching and was even offered a try-out on the Mets, but he gave up a life of fame to stay with me (and his green beanbag chair the size of a Lazy Boy...I am oddly jealous)._

_New York in the fall makes me want to buy school supplies. If I could, I'd send you a bouquet of sharpened No. 2's, though not knowing who you are has its charms._

0 o 0 o 0

Derek revels in quiet moments like these—his niece and nephew already picked up for school, his sister sleeping (and not realizing yet that she's ridiculously late, as she always is).

“Shit!”

Ah, there it is.

Derek smirks and takes another bite of bacon, wiping his mouth absently as he glances over the morning paper. The advertisement should be in here somewhere, right? Or are they running that next week? No, that can't be right, they're opening next week...or the week after?

Isaac will know. He knows everything. He single-handedly runs not only his own life but Derek's as well, all while handling the construction of their newest store. If Isaac wasn't so undeniably his best friend, Derek might be all over that. But the thought just strikes him as odd.

Laura runs into the kitchen, eyes swiveling madly. Her shirt is only half-buttoned, she's wearing one high-heel and one flat, and she still has pillow marks on her face. “Coffee?” she asks desperately.

Derek points to the machine on the counter, where half a pot still sits. 

“I love you,” she says, hurriedly grabbing a to-go cup and filling it to the point of spilling over.

“You're welcome,” Derek says, taking another bite of his breakfast.

Laura sips at the dark liquid, sighing in relief. “I was talking to the coffee,” she explains, snapping on the lid and searching the kitchen again. 

Derek slides her purse across the table, and she snatches it. “I know,” he says.

“Thank you.” She kisses him on the cheek, and Derek grimaces at the feel of smeared lipstick, using his napkin to wipe it away. Just as Laura makes it out of the kitchen, she doubles back and says, “Oh, and don't forget the benefit dinner.”

Derek growls low in his throat. “No.”

“Derek Hale, you promised,” Laura whines, stomping the foot that dons the heel. She looks down, groaning and kicking the shoe off her foot before disappearing in search of the other flat.

“It's black tie,” Derek calls. “I don't do black tie.”

Laura appears again. Her shoes still don't match, but at least they're the same height now. It's fine. Her assistant, Erica will catch it when she gets to work. Erica and Isaac are alike that way.

“You can,” Laura says, re-buttoning her shirt—the buttons are still mismatched; Erica certainly has her work cut out for her, “and you will.”

Derek scowls.

“Who knows,” Laura shrugs. “Maybe we'll find you a nice girl.” She waits a beat. “Or guy. Whatever you're into these days.”

Derek's shoulders hunch, and he takes a swig of orange juice.

His sister sighs, sitting across from him and staring at him sympathetically. “You've got to get over her, Der. Kate wasn't good for you. All she did was take.”

“I know.”

“You deserve better.”

“I know.”

“And you're going to the dinner.”

“Fine.”

Laura smiles.

Derek rolls his eyes. “You're late, remember?”

“Shit!” she curses, scrambling from the chair and out of the kitchen. “Love you, bro!”

“You too, sis.” Derek sips at his orange juice again as the front door slams closed, waiting a beat before standing and peeking out into the hallway towards the entryway. He waits until he hears the elevator ding and the elevator operator say “Good morning” to Laura before nonchalantly heading to his office and booting up his laptop.

Miguel, a happy Labrador Retriever, sits beside him as Derek seats himself in the desk chair. Derek ruffles the hair on the top of the dog's head. “Good boy,” he says, the AOL screen popping up and his screen name, METS57, staring back at him. 

He logs in. 

He holds his breath.

Miguel wags his tail and whines.

And....

“You've got mail!”

“We have mail!” he says triumphantly to Miguel, clicking the mailbox on the screen.

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Dear Friend _

_I like writing to you as if we're already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend we've known each other since forever, that we didn't just meet in some random chat room, and that once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away.... Oh, wait, wrong plotline._

_“What will METS57 say today?” I think to myself amidst thoughts of clone wars and light saber battles._

_I open my laptop, I wait impatiently as it takes forever and a day to connect, and I triumphantly fist-pump the air as I hear those three silly, wonderful, nerve-wracking, amazing words:_

_You've got mail._

_I have mail. From you._

0 o 0 o 0

Derek smiles as he enters a building that is severely under construction, the sounds of men yelling and metal clanking and buzz saws buzzing doing nothing to irritate his mood in the slightest. He hands Isaac a cup of coffee with a “Good morning” and receives an eyebrow raise in return. The younger man looks a little frazzled, rattling off this and that as he and Derek walk carefully around the soon-to-be store.

“Good,” Derek says when Isaac tells him their electrician hit some sort of...something—hopefully not a human—on the way to meet them and won't be able to make it until tomorrow.

“Great,” Derek says when Isaac tells him the upstairs shelves will be late because it was discovered they were infested with some new species of beetle, which not only ruined the wood but put them on the shit-list of several insect enthusiasts.

“Okay,” Derek says when Isaac tells him they've been fined because their construction workers keep peeing off the roof into the alleyway between them and their neighbor, who happens to be a Chinese restaurant and whose employees are somewhat unhappy when they have to take trash out to the dumpster in yellow rain.

“So,” Derek says when Isaac finally stops talking, “is the electrician here?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Have you been listening to me?”

Derek takes a breath to respond, then realizes that, no, he really hasn't been. “Sorry, I'm a little distracted today.”

“Are you and Laura fighting?” the younger man asks, taking another swig of coffee. It must be a regular occurrence, as it's the first question he asks when Derek acts like this.

“No, Laura and I are fine,” Derek says absently, looking around at the construction as thoughts flood his mind. “We should announce ourselves to the neighborhood.”

“This is a small-business area, Derek,” Isaac reminds him. “People aren't going to accept us so easily. As soon as we open, there'll be a line of picketers outside our doors claiming we're the—”

Derek interrupts. “Big, bad wolf. 'Oh, what large teeth we have.' Yeah, I've heard that one.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and sighs. “It's only going to last so long. People will hate us in the beginning, but eventually they'll be seduced by our square footage and our discount prices and our armchairs.”

“And cappuccino,” Isaac says, grimacing as he drinks the last of his coffee.

“And cappuccino,” Derek agrees. “Until then, we'll just put up a big sign. 'Coming soon: Wolf Books and the end of civilization as you know it.'”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles arrives at The Shop Around the Corner, the legacy his mother left to him, in a good mood, holding a pumpkin he'd found at the fruit and vegetable market, as well as a Starbucks coffee holder with four coffees, which he'd not gotten from the fruit and vegetable market. He loves his store. He loves the people that come into his store. He loves the street his store is on, and the people who work in the stores surrounding him—even the crotchety guy who owns the newspaper stand across the street. 

“Hey, Mr. Finstock!” he calls, waving at the man in the small booth.

Mr. Finstock gives him the finger and goes back to his magazine. Stiles, unperturbed, continues on with a bounce in his step.

Allison, one of his long-time friends and co-workers, is waiting for him. Allison is always early. Stiles is generally right on time. Scott, his best friend since before birth, is always late. And Lydia, who only works with them because she gets bored, usually shows up when she feels like it.

“Morning!” he chirps to Allison, who smiles in return and holds the coffee and pumpkin while Stiles unlocks and lifts the gate covering his shop. The smell as he enters is intoxicating.

Paper. Leather. Ink. Dust.

_Books._

He takes the pumpkin, and Allison follows him to the back office, picking up one of the coffees and sipping at it tiredly. No one is as much a morning person as Stiles is. He puts the pumpkin on his desk and hums happily, picking up a package of pencils and smiling at them. “Aren't these just fantastic?”

Coffee halfway to her lips, Allison pins him with a suspicious look and lowers the cup slightly. “What's going on with you?” Her eyes narrow. “Are you in love?”

Stiles huffs, shaking his head. “No! No, of course not.” He takes off his jacket, pausing a moment before setting it in the desk chair. “Oh, wait. Yes, yes I am in love. With Matt. I keep forgetting that...” Shaking his head, he leaves the office and begins setting up the cash register.

Allison picks up the pack of pencils and follows him, shaking them in his direction. “Seriously, what's going on with you?”

“Nothing!” Stiles protests. “Jeez, can't a guy just be happy once in a while?”

Allison steps up to the register and sets the pencils in front of him, crossing her arms and offering him a pointed look. It's a look she uses often and without remorse, guaranteed to get her any information she wants whenever she wants it. _How_ ever she wants it....

“Fine, fine,” Stiles says, looking around the small shop like he thinks someone might be eavesdropping and leaning in conspiratorially. “Is it... _cheating_ if you're involved with someone via email?”

She raises one finely-manicured eyebrow and tilts her head back to look down her nose at him. “Have you had sex?”

“What?!” Stiles practically shrieks, flailing and knocking the pencils onto the floor. He bends down to pick them up and smacks his head against the open register.. “No! I've never even met the guy!”

Allison rolls her eyes as Stiles pouts his lips and scowls at her. “I mean _cybersex_.”

The young man pauses to think for a moment. “No,” he manages, though uncertainly.

Allison shrugs and turns “Well, don't do it. The minute you do, they lose all respect for you.”

“Uh, ew. I think,” Stiles wrinkles his nose and closes the register, organizing the receipts from the day before and stapling them together. “And it's totally nothing like that, anyway. It's just talking...Though I am thinking about ending it. It's just getting...”

Allison turns from stocking books. “Out of hand?” she suggests.

Stiles shakes his head. “...confusing. But absolutely not, because it's nothing, right? Definitely nothing.”

“Where'd you meet this guy?”

Stiles shrugs and waves a plush animal around before setting it on the shelf with the dozen others that look exactly like it. “I don't even remember.”

With a pointed look, Allison stops stocking to lean against the shelving, a hand on her hip.

“Okay, fine,” Stiles whines. Man, she's good. “So...sometime last month, I wandered into this stupid chatroom called 'Love Bites'—”

“For broken and failing relationships,” Allison says matter-of-factly

Stiles frowns. “How do you—” 

“Weren't you still with Matt then? Are you guys doing okay?”

“We're fine. We're both fine. Everything is fine. I just...maybe misinterpreted the title of the chatroom.”

Allison looks at him incredulously. “Oh. Gross.”

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “Shut it. Anyway, he was there, too, giving really amazing advice to people who seemed pretty lost...So we started chatting.”

“About what?”

The young man fiddles with a candy jar on the counter. “I dunno...books, music, how much we both love New York.” He smiles absently and laughs. “...bouquets of sharpened pencils.”

Allison tilts her head. “Huh?”

“Forget it. We don't talk about anything personal, so I don't know his name or what he does or where he lives, so it should be easy enough to stop seeing him. Because I'm not. Seeing him. At all.”

Allison smiles widely. “Oh my God, Stiles, he could be anyone! He could be the next person to walk in the store!”

Stiles's heart flutters just a little. The thought had certainly occurred to him. “Yeah, I know.”

Allison's eyes widen a bit. “I mean, he could be—” 

Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles, and Scott walks in, out of breath (as he usually is, having run from his apartment after realizing he's late).

She leans in with a toothy grin and whispers quietly, “—Scott.”

Scott's shoulders slump as he unravels the scarf from around his neck, looking completely exhausted. “Morning.”

“Scott, are you online?” Allison asks innocently.

Scott makes his way to the office, scarf dragging along the ground. “As far as I'm concerned,” he says forlornly, “the internet is just another way of being rejected.”

The bell above door jingles again, and Lydia steps into the shop, designer shoes scuffing along the wood flooring.

“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles greets, leaning onto counter and continuing to whisper with Allison.

Lydia swivels her sunglasses—completely unnecessary, in Stiles's opinion, as it hasn't been sunny in New York since September—to the top of her head and shifts her purse on her shoulder. “And what are you ladies talking about?”

Stiles doesn't have time to look affronted before Allison answers.

“Cybersex.”

The red-head smirks. “I tried to have cybersex once, but I kept getting a busy signal.”

Stiles's rolls his eyes, leaving Allison and Lydia to chat while he turns the closed sign to open on the front door. Already, a few customers have lined up outside, and Stiles lets them in with a smile and an excited greeting.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek sighs, holding his phone away from his ear as his uncle, President of Wolf Books, continues to talk from the other end. “Yes, Peter,” he says, pacing the apartment kitchen, “the construction is going well. We should open on time.”

“Hmm,” Peter says, which is about at much praise as Derek has ever gotten from him. “I just got the news about that dismal little shop just down the street from our site.”

“Books for Nooks,” Derek confirms, feeling foolish even saying the name. “We're buying out their architecture and New York history selections. Isaac is setting up a display dedicated to writers who have lived in the area.”

“Great,” his uncle says tonelessly. “Give those pseudo-intellectuals what they want.”

“They're called 'readers', Peter.”

“Don't romanticize them, Derek.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

Peter speaks indistinctly for a moment, probably saying something to his secretary by the way his voice lowers, and he laughs jokingly. “Is there any competition we should be worried about?” he asks when he returns.

He's been dreading this conversation, because if there's anything that gets under Peter's skin, it's competition. The only reason Derek is still certain he's around is because he isn't outwardly gunning for his uncle's job...for now. CEO is fine, and Derek's damn good at it. But he could do more. And Peter is just this side of knowing it. 

“Just one,” Derek says. “A children's bookstore called The Shop Around the Corner. It's been there for years, family owned, does well for itself.”

Peter is quiet for a moment before saying, “Claudia.”

“Hmm?”

“Claudia Stilinski,” Peter explains. “It was her shop. It belongs to her son now.” Of course he knows that. There's more indistinct chatter before Peter continues distractedly. “Listen, Derek, I have to go. You're going to handle this, right?”

“Yeah, I'll—” The line clicks before Derek has a chance to finish, and he sighs, putting his phone in his pocket. “I'll take care of it.”

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Subway_

_When I was younger, my mom would read me stories about all sorts of things, but my favorite book was Make Way for Ducklings. And today on the subway, a mother and her ducklings boarded at 42nd and were shooed off at 59th, though I assume they were attempting to get off at 72nd towards Central Park Lake._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Listen To This..._

_Every night, around the time that Miguel and I go for a walk, there's a truck that pulls up to my favorite bakery and pumps about a ton of flour into these underground tanks. Sometimes I'll stand right in the middle of it, surrounded by a cloud of white dust that never seems to settle. The city slips away, and sound disappears entirely. It's like a foreign world all my own. And Miguel's, of course._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Confession_

_Pride and Prejudice is my favorite book. Which I know is weird—guys aren't usually into that sort of thing—but I fell in love with it back in high school and I've read it about a million times. I just get lost in the scenery and the characters and the dialogue—Mr. Bennet is a particular favorite. And no matter how many times I read it, I can't help but curse into the pages of my book over the silly misunderstandings and the question of whether Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy will ever get together. You should give it a try, if you haven't already. You might enjoy it._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Tall! Decaf! Cappuccino!_

_I have finally discovered the purpose of places like Starbucks. As simply put as I can make it, it is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make several life-changing decisions in a matter of seconds just to buy a single cup of coffee, so people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only $6.85, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self._

0 o 0 o 0

“You're quiet tonight.”

“Hmm?” Stiles looks up from his food to find Matt staring at him across the kitchen table. He chews once or twice then shrugs and returns his gaze to...whatever it is they're eating. Sushi, or something.

Matt wipes his mouth with a napkin and takes a sip of wine. “Usually you're going on and on about your day, about the store. And tonight you're chewing your food like a cow who knows their going to be hamburger in the morning. So what's up?”

“I don't know.” Stiles sighs, setting down his chopsticks. He doesn't even really know how to use chopsticks. Sushi is easier to eat as a finger food. “I mean, I don't know what I'm doing, I guess. With the store. With my life. Thinking I can outlast a monster like Wolf Books.” He runs a hand over his face. “I mean, they're probably full of dumbasses who don't know Dahl from Silverstein, and they're huge and impersonal and chaotic and...they're going to end us. We're going to get pushed out of business by some super store that knows everything about discounts and nothing about service.”

“Stiles, I think what you're doing is very brave.”

Stiles looks up hopefully, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah?”

Matt returns the smile, reaching across the small table and placing his hand over the other man's. “Yeah. Definitely.” He draws back and picks up his chopsticks again. “How's you're sushi?

Stiles wrinkles his nose and looks down at the mess of scattered rice and curled seaweed on his plate. “Uh, raw.”

Matt laughs and puts his chopsticks down again. “I'll order a pizza.”

“God, I love you.”

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Feels_

_I don't often question myself or who I've turned out to be, but lately I've been wondering about my life. I guess you could say it's small—lived to the fullest...but small. And, more often than I'd like to admit, I wonder if I live this way because I like it...or because I haven't been brave? Practically everything I see reminds me of something I read in a book, but don't you think that should be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So...good night, dear void._

0 o 0 o 0

Saturday is Derek's first day off in nearly a month. So, of course, Laura asks him to watch her kids for the day while she jaunts off to smooth-talk some potential clients. She runs Wolf Publishing, Inc., a not-so-subtle sister company to Wolf Books but one that Peter can't dip his greedy claws into—one that Laura has made certain he can't get to. And Laura is damn good at her job.

Derek used to work with her, as co-founder-and-President, but after Kate, he just...needed a change. Peter offered him a job. And Derek took it. Pure and simple.

And now, instead of sitting at home drinking beer and watching baseball, Derek is watching his niece and nephew, April and Cody, sprint around a street fair. Derek is not so great with social interaction. But how can he say no to those silly kids? 

So they play games and win prizes, they get their faces painted like cats and dogs, they get their pictures taken as they stick their faces through holes in painted boards that make them look like turkeys and pumpkins and pilgrims. April wins a jar of jellybeans by guessing how many are inside (457). Cody buys a goldfish and names it Boyd (which suits it well). And Derek...is relaxed. He has fun, which is more than he had been expecting of his day off, so he buys Laura some rock candy and calls it even.

“You guys ready to go home?” he asks as they make their way down the street and away from the fair.

“Look!” April says instead of answering the question, pointing excitedly at a sign sitting outside a small shop. “It says it's Storybook Time! Can we, Uncle Derek? Please, please, please?” 

Derek looks at the sign, then at his watch. “Yeah, I guess so. It looks like it just started. What is this place any—” He looks up and realizes they are just outside The Shop Around the Corner.

Shit. 

“You know, I don't think we have time,” Derek starts, but April and Cody are already inside, making their way past a throng of parents and joining the children on the floor. With a sigh, Derek squares his shoulders and heads inside. 

He breathes in, and a light, pleasant smell of paper and leather and ink and dust settles in the back of this throat. The place is quaint, small. The shelves are packed but organized, and the selection is actually somewhat impressive. 

In the far corner, the children are gathered around a lanky young man in a funny hat. He's just opened a book and started to read what Derek recognizes as The Great Mouse Plot by Roald Dahl. He spots his niece and nephew on the floor, and he stands towards the back with the other adults, listening to the young man speak. His voice is smooth and easy to listen to, high with excitement at just the right moments and low with impending danger at others.

“ _When writing about oneself, one must strive to be truthful_ ,” the young man states matter-of-factly, and Derek feels a pang of guilt at the words. “ _Truth is more important than modesty. I must tell you, therefore, that it was I and I alone who had the idea for the great and daring Mouse Plot. We all have our moments of brilliance and glory, and this was mine._ ”

April and Cody seem to love the story. They laugh and gasp and smile as the story-teller continues, gesturing widely and changing his voice to match the different characters. He's never seen his niece and nephew react so openly. The remaining Hales have been so shut off from the world since the devastating loss of their family members—a tragedy that claimed the lives of aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, and parents; Laura's husband included.

This moment, this release is...different. For all of them.

0 o 0 o 0

“Uh...Who belongs to this fish?”

Derek looks up from the used books section to find one of the store's employees holding Cody's goldfish. “Oh, that's ours.”

“Cool.” The guy, whose nametag says _Hi! My Name Is Scott!_ , holds the plastic bag up and watches the fish swim in tight circles for a moment. “You win him at the fair?”

“My nephew did, yeah.”

“Lucky,” Scott says sullenly. “I never win anything...Hey, did you want help with those books?”

“Sure,” Derek says, distracted as he spots April at one of the front displays with the story-teller guy. He's telling her about a book series called Betsy-Tacy, discussing in detail the friendship that the two form with another character named Tib.

Scott continues to dither on about the over-priced book Derek is holding, and the poor kid winces every time he turns a page. He knows how to hold a book, dammit. But his niece pipes up with “I want _all_ of them!” and that turns out to be his cue to step in when the story-teller turns a wary eye in his direction. 

“Um, well that-that's an awful lot for your dad to buy all at once.”

Derek smirks, because it damn well is, and that's exactly why she wants the entire series. She has Hale blood in her veins, after all.

“Oh, he's not my dad,” April says with a shrug. “He's my uncle. And he buys me anything I want.”

The guy quirks an eyebrow. “Well, lucky you!” 

Suddenly, April sneezes (damned dust everywhere), and the story-teller hands her a handkerchief. April stares at it skeptically.

“What's this?” she asks.

“That, my good lady, is a handkerchief.” The guy looks thoughtful for a moment. “Do kids even know what handkerchiefs are nowadays? Well, it's like a tissue that you don't throw away.”

“Ewwww,” April and Cody say together.

“Yeah, it's kind of eww,” he admits, taking the handkerchief as April hands it back to him. “But this one is special. See here?” He shows them a corner of the handkerchief. “It has my initials.”

“And purple flowers!” April says happily.

“Yeah! They're called Wolfsbane. My mom used to live out on the west coast in this small town, and the forest was covered in 'em. She embroidered this for me.”

Derek stares—he can't help himself. Because there's no way this lanky, spastic...kinda cute guy is who he thinks he is. “Can I...ask who you are?”

The guy seems taken aback for a minute, like it's weird that anyone would want to know his name, but then the smooth look is back on his face and he puts on a friendly smile. “Oh, yeah! I'm Stiles. I own this store. And, uh, you're...?”

The older man hesitates—because, shit, what is he supposed to do with that? How is he supposed to announce himself? ' _Yeah, hey, I'm the guy that's trying to put you out of business. No hard feelings, right?_ ' “Derek,” he says after an acceptably uncomfortable silence. “You can call me Derek.” Grabbing the books from his niece's hands, he quickly places them on the counter. “We'll take these.”

Scott takes the books to scan them, hesitating as he asks, “Hey, you're gonna come back, right?”

Good grief, when did this become twenty questions? 

Stiles is watching him with a skeptical look on his face, like he knows something isn't right about him. Like he knows Derek doesn't belong here.

“Yeah. Sure.” he answers, avoiding Stiles's gaze. 

“See? That's why we're not gonna go under. Our customers know what _loyalty_ is.”

Stiles nods absently and turns to Derek, explaining, “There's a Wolf Books opening around the corner.”

“Wolf Books!” April shrieks, babbling a little too incoherently to understand but Derek puts a hand over her mouth to quiet her nonetheless.

“Sounds like...they're quite the addition to the neighborhood.”

Stiles scoffs. “More like a _subtraction_.”

Before Derek can stop him, Cody turns to Stiles and spells: “W-O-L-F.”

Fantastic. Of all the times to show off the first word he ever learned to spell, he has to choose this very moment to spell that very word in front of this very person.

Stiles feigns awe, like any good adult would. “Holy cow! That's so amazing! You can spell wolf? Can you spell...dog?”

“W-O-L-F.”

Derek quickly grabs a nearby book that he's pretty sure is already in their pile but shoves it in his nephew's face. “Hey, look here. A pop-up! You love pop-ups.” In desperation, he shoves April and Cody in the direction of a children-sized table with children-sized chairs and sits them down. “Why don't you both read this together? I'm sure you'll love it.” He leans down to eye level with his niece, whom he has always believed is smarter than she lets herself seem, and lowers his voice. “You sit here and you read and you don't listen to anything I say, okay?”

April raises a fine, Hale eyebrow at him and huffs through her nostrils. “Sure,” she says, opening the book to the first page and starting to read to Cody as Derek stands and heads back to the counter.

“We'll, uh, take the pop-up, too.”

“You know, this shop has been around for a long time,” Stiles says matter-of-factly. “I used to help my mother when I was a kid, and I saw how she ran things around here. She didn't just sell books. She helped people. She knew exactly what they needed when they needed it. It's something I think I did a pretty good job of picking up from her.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks quietly. “So...what is it that I need?”

Stiles stares at him a moment, searching his face intently—Derek really hopes his cheeks aren't heating as they usually do under such scrutiny—and smiles when he seems to find what he's looking for. Without breaking eye-contact, he reaches behind the counter and produces a tall, slender jar, which he sets in front of the older man. 

“My own personal stash,” Stiles admits with a smirk and half a shrug, “but I think I can part with a few.”

Derek looks down...

...and immediately loses the battle in resisting the urge to smile like a kid.

“Licorice,” he says, chuckling despite himself. And the situation he's found himself in.

“Go ahead,” Stiles encourages. “I know you want one.”

Derek does. And he takes two. Surprisingly enough, it's the only sweet he lets himself indulge in. How did Stiles....

“Well, anyway,” Stiles continues, setting the jar back behind the counter, “my mom left the store to me, and I'll leave it to my children. And that's how I know.”

“Know what?”

“That...we'll be around. Forever.”

Derek's breath catches in his throat, and he takes a bite of licorice to hide it. “So, um...How old are your kids?”

Stiles looks confused. “I don't have any—oh. Uh, no, I'm not married. Just a boyfriend, but eventually, you know, I'd like to...Well, I guess that's kind of over-sharing, but the point I was trying to make was that Ol' Big Bad Wolf Books can go straight to—”

“We ready?” Derek calls towards his niece and nephew, receiving a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Okay!”

Stiles hands him a canvas bag with the store's logo on it, filled with the books the kids had picked out. It's cute, kind of. Re-usable, so eco-friendly. Something that could be used on a daily basis for any number of needs. And a great, cheap way to advertise amidst the community. Why hasn't anyone at Wolf Books thought of this?

Stiles says goodbye to the kids by name. He's mentioned _a lot_ of kids by name, actually. He really knows his clientele.

Derek picks up the goldfish and raises it in thanks as they make their way towards the front of the store. Before they make it fully out the door, Stiles calls out, “Oh! Cody, I forgot to ask. Can you spell bird?”

Crap.

“W-O-L-F!” his nephew states proudly, and Derek grits his teeth.

Stiles laughs behind the counter as Derek ushers the kids out onto the sidewalk, mumbling about birds and dogs and fish.

0 o 0 o 0

Opening day is a success.

“No protests or demonstrations,” Isaac states, a thick folder under his arm as he walks beside Derek and Peter. “The neighborhood seems to be accepting us fairly well.”

“Well, of course,” Peter says smoothly, glancing around the bookstore inquisitively. Derek's hardly taken a look at anything and has to remind himself that this is the first time Peter has bothered to set foot in the store. “They're wondering where we've been their whole lives.” They head towards the staircase that leads to the upper level. “How's the children's department?”

“Somewhat bare at the moment,” Derek explains. “But school's not out yet. And...” He hesitates, drawing Peter's attention to himself. “There's that children's store nearby. The Shop Around the Corner.”

“Still?” his uncle asks, frowning as he looks around the children's section himself. There are a few parents with very young children who aren't quite old enough for school yet, but as Derek said, it's somewhat lacking in the clientele they need to stay in business. “I thought you said you were going to take care of that.”

“I am,” Derek replies. “They're a little more...resistant than I thought they would be. The neighborhood likes them—thinks they're charming.” 

“Charming is cute,” Peter says matter-of-factly. “We don't sell cute, Derek. We crush it.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then be aware of this.” Peter steps close to him, invading a space he hasn't let anyone in for a long time. “If that shop stays open past the new year, you will be out of a job.”

Derek swallows hard, nodding. “I understand.”

Peter claps him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

0 o 0 o 0

It's snowing outside.

Stiles flails, trying desperately to untangle the Christmas lights that have somehow managed to wrap around his entire body like a snake ready to squeeze the life out of him.

Merry freaking Christmas, right?

Scott has his hands full with assembling the Christmas tree in the front window display, which will look fantastic when it stops falling over. Allison hums carols happily as she cuts paper snowflakes and strings them around the counter and from the ceiling.

In the shop's office, Lydia frowns at a desktop computer, turning and calling to the rest of them as they continue to decorate. “Wolf Books has only been open a few days, and we've already done $1200 less than the same week last year.”

Stiles scowls. “No mentioning that name in the shop anymore. It's bad luck.” Lowering the lights in his hands, he sighs and looks at Lydia pleadingly. “That could be a fluke, right?”

Lydia shrugs, popping her gum. “Or not.”

“Well...they're store is new,” Stiles says defensively. “It's just the hype. It'll die down once the sound of milk steamers and food wrappers and sales people jabbering gets on peoples' nerves...Maybe.” He glances around at the others before sighing in defeat. “I'm just gonna put up more twinkle lights.”

“Whatever helps you sleep, Stiles.” _Pop!_

Allison pauses in hanging a snowflake. “What if we have to close?” she whines pitifully. “I'll never find another part-time job. And I won't be able to pay my rent. I'll have to move back to my dad's...in _Brooklyn_.”

“My mom keeps calling,” Scott says with a roll of his eyes. “She wants to know when we'll start discounting books to get rid of our stock.”

“Guys, we are not gonna close,” Stiles says adamantly.

And he absolutely believes it.

Even if the rest of the decorating is done in silence.

0 o 0 o 0

“You're going to be fine,” Matt assures as he and Stiles step out of a taxi, closing the door and slipping an arm around Stiles's waist. “There's no reason to think you're not going to be fine.”

“Then why do people keep _coming up_ with reasons that we're not going to be fine?” Stiles whines, crossing his arms and leaning his head on Matt's shoulder. They enter the building their taxi has dropped them off in front of and start down a long corridor.

“People are frightened of the unknown,” Matt explains. “They're afraid things _won't_ be fine.”

“But they _will_ be,” Stiles says as confidently as he can muster. “ _We_ will be.”

“Yes. You will be.”

“We'll be fine.”

“You'll be fine.”

The door at the end of the corridor opens just as they step in front of it, a cheery woman smiling out at them from the party inside. “Boys! So nice of you to come! How are you this evening?”

Matt and Stiles share a glance, saying in unison, “Fine.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek spots Stiles from across the crowded room and immediately regrets having said yes to this benefit dinner. Laura stands beside him, talking animatedly with the people around them—well, talking to the people around them. Laura hasn't taken so much as a breath since she started talking, and no one has been able to get a word in edge-wise without her opinion smothering the air. 

Derek hates this.

And then Laura hands him a glass, half-melted ice clinking sadly in the bottom. “Derek, will you get me another drink?”

Thank God.

He takes the glass and heads towards the bar, offering Stiles one last glance over his shoulder. The younger man hasn't spotted him. Yet. It's a fairly large party, but it isn't big enough to keep the two of them hidden from each other forever. And unless Derek plans on finding new people to hide behind every time Stiles moves around the room, they're bound to come face to face at some point.

And won't that just be a hoot-and-a-half?

He gets to the bar, orders Laura another drink, and too late realizes that Stiles has followed him. He doesn't look angry, though. He must not know yet.... Give it time. Everyone in the room knows who the Hales are. Someone is bound to tell him. 

“Oh, hello!” Stiles says conversationally. 

Derek smiles. “Hi.”

“Do you, uh, remember me? From the bookstore?” Stiles asks uncertainly. 

Like Derek could forget the face of the man he's been ordered to put out of business....

“Yeah, of course.”

“How's your niece?” Stiles asks, which just makes it worse. Because he remembers. He seems like the kind of person who always remembers...and never forgets. “Is she liking the book series she got?”

“Uh, I think so,” Derek says vaguely. He doesn't know. He can't even really remember what books she picked out. Something about Tibet and...? The bartender hands him Laura's drink, and Derek takes the distraction readily. “I better deliver this.” He starts to edge away, but his mouth just keep spewing words he hasn't given it permission to loose. “I have a very thirsty sister. She's...part camel.”

But Stiles pays no heed to the attempted brushing off. “Derek, right? It's Derek? I'm pretty good with names, usually.”

“Yeah,” Derek confirms. “And you are Stiles.” Without a second thought, Derek turns and walks away, leaving the young man with an unformed thought on his tongue.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sighs and squares his shoulders. Well, that went well. He doesn't know a large percentage of the people at this thing, and the one person he thought he might be able to carry on a conversation with cut and run like Stiles had emitted some sort of heinous odor. Stiles lowers his head discretely and sniffs just to be sure. 

Nope, just his normal scent. It doesn't usually put people off. 

The bartender hands him his drink, and he turns, finding Danny Mahealani, partner of Jackson Whittemore and co-President of _W & M Publishing, Inc._, heading towards him and looking fairly intent on having a conversation. Before Stiles can utter a hello, Danny is speaking incredulously. 

“I can't believe you were speaking to Derek Hale.”

The smile slips from Stiles's face. “Derek...Hale?”

“Yeah.”

“As in....”

“As in 'the better to eat you with, my dear',” Danny says before shrugging and walking away. 

Wait. Stiles has questions. _Many questions_.

Derek?

Derek Hale?

Derek Freaking Hale?!

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles finds him at the buffet table, and he has that look—betrayal and confusion and just a hint of anger. Shit, someone told him

“Hale?” he asks, glancing around to see if anyone is eavesdropping on the potentially heated conversation they are about to have. “Your last name is Hale? As in _the-Hales-that-own-Wolf-Books_ Hale?”

Derek spoons some vegetables onto his plate and gives Stiles a pointed look. If the pretenses are over, Derek guesses he's free to act like himself now. “W-O-L-F.”

Stiles looks away. “I...I had no idea. I didn't know....”

“Who you were with?” Derek asks, suddenly trying his best Godfather impersonation. “'I didn't know who you were with.'”

Stiles's eyebrows furrow, and he stares at Derek like he's grown another limb. On his forehead. “Excuse me?”

Derek clears his throat. “It's...from the Godfather.” It's his favorite movie. He watches it with Isaac when they have some downtime. How has Stiles never heard of the Godfather? “Nevermind.”

Stiles's features darken again. “You were spying on me, weren't you? You probably rented those kids.”

“Why the hell would I spy on you?”

“Because I'm your competition.”

Derek grits his teeth and shakes his head, setting his plate down and turning to Stiles with as much integrity as he can muster. “Look, the reason I was in your store is because I was spending the day with my niece and nephew. We had fun at the fair, and they saw your sign for the story time, so we stopped into your store, which, I will admit, is charming...in its own way. You probably sell, what, $350,000 worth of books in a year?”

Stiles looks awed. “How do you...?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I'm in the book business.”

Stiles shakes his head and points at the older man accusingly. “I am in the book business,” he declares, walking around Derek and picking random things to set on his plate. Derek is almost certain that the young man won't eat half of it.

“Yeah,” Derek says, his temper rising. “I'm a spy. I stopped into your store with children I hired to find the secret file you keep hidden under the floorboards in the backroom, for fear you and your inconsequential little shop are going to put Wolf Books out of business.”

Stiles stands flabbergasted, small noises escaping his gaping mouth but producing no actual words.

“What?” Derek asks a little more rudely than he'd intended.

A man, suddenly, sidles up to Stiles's side, a possessive arm winding its way around the young man's waist. “Hey, how you doing? Matt Daehler,” he introduces himself, extending a hand.

“Derek Hale.”

Matt looks taken aback, drawing his offered hand away. “Derek Hale?”

Derek sighs. “Yep.”

“Right. The superstore hotshot and destroyer of Books for Nooks.” He looks to Stiles as if seeking approval, and Stiles seems to be giving him the full-steam go-ahead. His flabbergasted look has faded into that of smug satisfaction. “Tell me something: How do you sleep at night?”

And then Laura. Who is drunk and just this side of self-serving and takes everything out of context and is wonderful and amazing for it.

“Oh, there's this fantastic, over-the-counter drug: Ultra-dorm. You'll sleep like the dead and wake up without even the word hangover on your mind.” Matt and Stiles share an uncomfortable look, turning and starting to leave, but Laura pulls them into her web again. “You're Matt Daehler, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” Matt says quietly, ushering Stiles in the direction of the door. “And we were just—”

“Your last photograph in _City Limits_ was brilliant.”

Boom. Hooked.

Wait...What?

“Really?” Matt asks, laughing it off like it's a joke but looking genuinely interested in the fact that someone actually admires his work (besides himself, Derek is sure).

“Brilliant,” Laura repeats, shoving her hand into the other man's. “I'm Laura Hale, Wolf Publishing.” She turns to Derek. “Der, this is Matt Daehler, the single greatest photographer on city life.”

“Yeah, okay,” Derek says with as little interest as he can force into the words before he points to Stiles. “This is Stiles. He owns that bookstore I've been telling you about, The Shop Around the Corner.”

“Oh, hi,” Laura says in that drunk-friendly tone she uses with everyone.

Stiles starts to reciprocate, but Matt interrupts. “Sorry, I just...I mean, I take these photos—for myself, of course, I'm not looking for recognition or anything—but, you know, there's always the hope that someone will mention them. And then, no one calls or writes anything, and I can't help but think: 'Jesus, I'm...I'm a failure.'”

“No, no, no,” Laura consoles, stepping closer and putting a hand on his arm. “Of course not. Don't even think that. The minute you start thinking that—”

She goes on. And on. And this Matt guy just soaks in every drunken word she doesn't really mean (and won't remember in the morning) like she's preaching some sort of self-motivation gospel. Derek recognizes some of what she says, of course. Quite a bit of it is things she used to tell herself after she lost her husband, things to get her through the day. 

But somewhere along the line, she switched words for alcohol, and Derek can't do much more than keep the crazy train from derailing.

As Matt and Laura gush excitedly about things Derek isn't interested in, he catches Stiles's eye. The younger man looks as bored as he feels. And if Derek had any sense in his body, he'd grab Stiles's hand and run. God knows where they'd run. 

But at least it wouldn't be here. Now.

“Have you ever thought of compiling a photo book?” Laura asks, and that is Derek's cue. He can't have her making drunken promises she won't keep. 

“Okay. Time to go,” he says, taking Laura's arm and gently leading her away. Stiles does the same to Matt, even as the man continues talking.

“Uh, yeah! I mean, it's crossed my mind, definitely.”

“Matt, come on,” Stiles coaxes.

“We should get together,” Laura says, waving her hand excited. “Ooh! We could do lunch!”

“Call me!” Matt manages to say before Stiles shoves him towards the bar.

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Hello, Jack._

_Do you ever feel like if you could meet a younger version of yourself, you'd be disappointed in how you turned out? I think I imagined I would turn out differently. I wanted to play professional baseball. And instead my whole life has just been one off-key tune that's finally come to an end, and a box of all the secret, hateful parts I've tried to keep hidden has suddenly popped open. Instead of smiling and shrugging things off, my immediate reaction is to attack with scathing words and insults..._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Re: Hello, Jack._

_I have this problem when I'm provoked: I get tongue-tied, can't utter a single syllable. My mind goes completely blank, and then I spend days—weeks, even—wondering what I could have said. It's obsessive and unhealthy, according to my co-workers (who also happen to be long-time friends). And also frustrating when I don't have a comeback for the asshole who recently insinuated that my life has little-to-no meaning._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Re: Re: Hello, Jack._

_What if I could give all my scathing words and insults to you? Then I could put Jack back in the box and you could let him out. Win-win. Though, I have to warn you: when you finally have the pleasure of saying the thing you mean to say at the moment you mean to say it, remorse inevitably follows._

_...Do you want to meet?_

0 o 0 o 0

Meet?

What?

What does that even mean? _Meet?_

Stiles closes his laptop and shoves it away across the table as if it has insulted him. He just wanted someone to talk to, someone to rant his problems at, someone to give him the encouragement and advice that only a stranger that knows absolutely nothing about him can.

Meet?

Holy shit....

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Christmas, Christmas Time Is Near..._

_People are cutting down trees. I see them hauling them along the sidewalks in the snow. Do you know that Gotye song? Your voice still echoes in the hallways of this house. Such a sad song. Not really Christmas-y, but it got stuck in my head as I was decorating my own tree. Unwrapping ornaments made of cinnamon sticks and missing my mom so much I almost couldn't breathe. I always miss her around holidays, but I think it's worse this year. I wish she would make me some cocoa and tell me that everything that's going to shit in my life will sort itself out._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Re: Christmas, Christmas Time Is Near..._

_I'm not very good at making cocoa, but I would more than happily shell out the dough to buy you a hot chocolate from Starbucks. Can I help with your problem?_

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Re: Re: Christmas, Christmas Time Is Near..._

_Can you help? I wish you could help. I wish—_

Stiles email is abruptly interrupted as an IM window appears on his screen.

Oh, shit....

METS57 [07:34PM]: I had feeling you'd be online.  
METS57 [07:34PM]: I can give you advice. I'm great at advice.

SHOPGUY [07:34PM]: If only you could help.

METS57 [07:34PM]: Is it about love?

SHOPGUY [07:35PM]: God, no.  
SHOPGUY [07:35PM]: My business is in trouble.

METS57 [07:35PM]: Oh, well that's easy. I'm a businessman, myself. What's your business?

SHOPGUY [07:35PM]: No, nuh-uh, no way.  
SHOPGUY [07:35PM]: We said no specific info, remember?

METS57 [07:35PM]: Well, I guess that makes it kind of hard to help, except to say...  
METS57 [07:35PM]: Go to the mattresses.

SHOPGUY [07:35PM]: I don't understand...

METS57 [07:36PM]: It's from “The Godfather.”  
METS57 [07:36PM]: It means you have to go to war.

SHOPGUY [07:36PM]: Dude.  
SHOPGUY [07:37PM]: No offense, but what is with “The Godfather”?  
SHOPGUY [07:37PM]: Everyone I know is obsessed with this movie.

METS57 [07:37PM]: Are you kidding?? “The Godfather” is the sum of all wisdom.  
METS57 [07:37PM]: It's the answer to any question.  
METS57 [07:37PM]: What should I pack for my summer vacation? “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”  
METS57 [07:38PM]: What day of the week is it? “Maunday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday.”  
METS57 [07:38PM]: The answer to your question is “Go to the mattresses.” 

SHOPGUY [07:39PM]: I guess that makes sense from a business point.

METS57 [07:39PM]: Exactly.  
METS57 [07:39PM]: You just gotta keep telling yourself: “It's not personal, it's business.”  
METS57 [07:39PM]: Say that to yourself when you feel like you're losing your nerve. 

SHOPGUY [07:40PM]: That...is surprisingly good advice.

METS57 [07:40PM]: You were expecting shitty advice?

SHOPGUY [07:40PM]: No, nothing like that.  
SHOPGUY [07:40PM]: I just don't ask for advice very often.  
SHOPGUY [07:41PM]: Not since my mom died.

METS57 [07:41PM]: I'm sorry.

SHOPGUY [07:41PM]: Thanks.

METS57 [07:41PM]: You shouldn't be afraid to ask for advice.  
METS57 [07:41PM]: Not ever.

SHOPGUY [07:42PM]: That is also some really great advice.

METS57 [07:42PM]: What can I say? I'm a generous guy. :)

SHOPGUY [07:42PM]: Did you seriously just use a smiley face emoticon?

METS57 [07:42PM]: #noshame

SHOPGUY [07:43PM]: And hashtags?! Oh man...I can't with you anymore.  
SHOPGUY [07:43PM]: Our friendship is over.

METS57 [07:43PM]: Well, I guess it was fun while it lasted.

SHOPGUY [07:43PM]: Loads of fun. Never had as much fun with anyone.  
SHOPGUY [07:43PM]: Ever.

METS57 [07:44PM]: That's a little sad.

SHOPGUY [07:44PM]: Depressing, even.  
SHOPGUY [07:44PM]: Hey, sorry to cut this short, but I gotta go.  
SHOPGUY [07:45PM]: Talk to you soon?

METS57 [07:45PM]: I'll be here, friend.

SHOPGUY [07:45PM]: :) #thanksbuddy 

SHOPGUY has signed out  
AOL Instant Message session has ended

0 o 0 o 0

“No difference?”

“No difference.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Stiles and Lydia sit in the shop office, staring at the computer in disappointment. Well, Stiles in disappointment. Lydia seems happy to pop her gum and play Solitaire in the bottom corner of the screen.

“How could there be no difference?” Stiles demands, running his hands through his hair and linking his fingers behind his neck. It hurts. _Everything_ hurts. He's been running around like a crazy person all week. Ever since Matt convinced his editor to run an article on _The Little Shop in Distress_ , Stiles has been juggling press conferences outside the store, interviews for newspaper and magazine articles, and what felt like an influx of business.

Apparently not.

Lydia shrugs unhelpfully. “Numbers don't lie, Stiles.”

The young man scowls. “Well, they should.”

“That would be fraud. And we would still be going out of business.” _Pop!_

“So there's no way to fight this.”

Lydia swivels towards him, hands clasped primly in her lap. “That's up to you, Buttercup.”

Stiles purses his lips, closing his eyes and silently asking his mother what she would do in a situation like this.

But all he can hear is his own plea echoing back to him from the void in his mind and a triumphant chime from the computer as Lydia wins her Solitaire game.

_Pop!_

And that.

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: I Need Help. _

_Do you still want to meet me?_

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Re: I Need Help_

_I would love to meet you. Where? When?_

0 o 0 o 0

“So you just plan on walking in there and meeting this guy?” Isaac asks as he and Derek walk down the street towards the cafe that SHOPGUY had suggested they meet at. 

Derek tugs on his collar. His tie is too tight. “Yeah,” he says curtly, promptly shoving his hand back into his coat pocket. Shit, it's cold.

“And how are you supposed to recognize him, again?”

Derek grunts in annoyance, sparing the man a scowl before murmuring, “A book. He'll have a book.”

“And a flower,” Isaac goads, ducking a swat to the head and chuckling as Derek's scowl only deepens. “Come on, Derek, that's got to be the cheesiest thing I've ever heard of. A book and a flower? Cliché much?” 

Derek's cheeks flush hotly in the cold evening air. It's December 22nd. He has just over a week before he probably loses his job. And if he wants to meet a stranger who's funny and charming and maybe a little obsessed with romanticism and actually manages to make Derek smile, then, for God's sake, he's going to meet him. 

Book and flower, or no.

They reach the cafe, and Derek stares at the steps leading up to the door with a sudden sense of dread. What is he doing? What is he _thinking_? He doesn't even know this person. They could be a psycho killer or a transvestite or a psycho-killer-transvestite, ready to chop Derek into tiny pieces and feed them to his dog.

Or something.

“Are you gonna just stand here all night?” Isaac asks. 

Derek turns to him, a look of desperation on his face. “Go look in the window for me.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Please, Isaac, just...go see if he's there.”

The young man sighs, ascending the stairs until he can see inside the window, and scans the small cafe with scrutiny. 

“Do you see anyone?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says with boredom, “I see plenty of 'anyones.' None of them have a—wait. I see a book and a flower.”

“And?” Derek demands impatiently. 

“Hold on, a waiter's blocking the table.” Isaac waits a beat. “...Oh.”

“Oh?” the older man repeats in exasperation. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he's...actually pretty good-looking,” Isaac admits with a shrug.

“He is?” 

“I mean, you could almost say he has a...Stiles Stilinski quality to him. I mean, you've been pining over him for weeks, now, haven't you?”

Derek's eyebrows furrow, and he frowns. “I haven't been pining over—Isaac, what are you saying?”

“I'm saying...that if you don't like Stiles Stilinski, then you definitely aren't going to like this guy,” Isaac says carefully, something strange in his voice.

The pit of Derek's stomach drops out. “Why?”

“...Because it _is_ Stiles Stilinski.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles seethes. 

How dare that pompous, over-zealous, career-stealing, no-good asshole show up here. _Here_. Of all places, of all nights. How could he?

Stiles promptly opens his book, placing the flower on the coffee shop table and covering his face to hide his anger and shock and hurt. This was supposed to be a nice night. This was supposed to be a night of relaxation and good conversation and sipping coffee and _who knew_ what else.

But it was not supposed to be _this_.

Maybe if he just stays hidden. Maybe if he makes himself as small as humanly possible, _Derek Fucking Destroyer of Everything Good and Decent in this World Hale_ will simply buy a cup of coffee and leave.

“Stiles.”

Shit.

“What a coincidence.”

Double-shit.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

Triple-fucking-mother-loving-shit.

Stiles puts the book down, squaring his shoulders and looking the man up and down with a scowl as he attempts to emit as much disapproval as possible. “Yeah, actually, I do. I'm expecting someone.”

Derek leans forward, his long coat swishing, and picks up the book from under Stiles's fingers. “ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” he says softly.

Stiles snatches the book back, laying it on the table and haphazardly shoving the flower back into the book. The stem is frayed, leaving green smears on the pages as he slams the cover closed. “Do you mind?” he hisses, looking around self-consciously.

Derek merely smirks. “I didn't know you liked Jane Austen,” he says with more than a little sarcastic mirth. “I bet you read it all the time, that you just love Mr. Darcy and your sentimental heart beats wildly at the thought that he and whatever her name is are really, honestly and truly going to end up together.”

The younger man grinds his teeth. “Would you _please leave_?”

Derek sits down. Stiles feels like throwing up.

“ _Please_?”

“I'll leave when your friend gets here,” Derek says calmly, setting his briefcase on the floor beside him. “Are they late?”

Anger bubbles in Stiles's throat. “For your information, 'whatever-her-name-is' is Elizabeth Bennet, and she is one of the best literary characters ever written.”

“I know,” Derek replies snidely. “I've read it.”

“Well....” Stiles flusters for words. His brain is cloudy, a dense fog shrouding his thoughts. _Business, not personal. Business, not personal._ “Good for you.”

The older man cocks his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I think you'd discover a lot of things if you really knew me.”

_Business, not personal. Business, not personal. Business. Not. Personal._

Suddenly, the fog lifts, the clouds part. And there it is. He can reach exactly what he needs exactly when he needs it. The words tumble out of him like they're racing to be the first off the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure if I knew you, I know what I'd find—instead of a brain, a cash register; instead of a heart, a bottom line.”

The two sit in shocked silence for a moment before Derek raises an eyebrow, asking, “What is it?”

“I just had a serious breakthrough,” Stiles murmurs, still somewhat dazed. His head is spinning. The fog hasn't quite settled back into place yet, and thoughts are still pouring into the back of his throat. “And I have you to thank for it.” He glances up from the table into Derek's surprisingly green eyes. “For the first time in _ever_ , I knew exactly what I wanted to say to someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“An insensitive prick.”

Derek's lips press together thinly before he dons an unconvincing smile. “You have a gift for it.” His gaze, suddenly, falls to the book and the flower. Stiles grabs for the book but is unable to keep the older man from snagging the rose out from the pages and holding it up speculatively. 

“Give it to me,” Stiles demands, making a frustrated noise when Derek puts the flower between his teeth and bites down. “You'll ruin it! Is everything a freaking joke with you?” He grabs the rose, hoping perhaps that one of the thorns will cut the man's lip. It doesn't, and Stiles almost immediately feels bad about the thought, but focuses his mind back on his anger. “Please. Leave.”

Derek pauses for a moment before smoothly dipping to grab his briefcase and stand from the table. Stiles's chest loosens in relief...or loss...No, definitely relief. But it's short-lived as Derek takes a seat at the table directly behind him. The younger man huffs, determined not to let it ruin his evening. 

He takes a sip of his apple cider, using his napkin to wipe the foam from his mouth. 

“You know what that napkin reminds me of?” Derek asks from behind him, and Stiles turns in annoyance to find the man facing him. “The first day I met you.”

“The first day you _lied to me_.”

Derek smirks. “I didn't lie to you.”

“Uh, yeah. You did, actually.”

“I didn't.”

“God, and I thought all that Wolf stuff was soooo freakin' adorable.” Stiles shakes his head, mimicking the man's nephew. “ _W-O-L-F_.”

“Yeah, but I never lied.”

“ _'Derek. Just call me Derek.'_ As if you were some blonde bimbo with no last name. I mean, seriously, who the hell doesn't have a last name? It's like they're a whole generation of strippers.” Stiles crosses his arms. He hadn't meant to ramble like that. It's hard to stop, sometimes. His brain is slowly clouding over again, the turmoil calming, which is good...maybe. He really hopes he has something witty to say to end this awful conversation.

Derek, suddenly, stands and seats himself across from Stiles again, the younger man far too put-out to protest this time. “I'm not a blonde-bimbo-stripper.”

Stiles snorts.

“And when I said that thing about your store being inconsequential, I didn't mean—” 

“Aw, is the poor multimillionaire feeling guilty about shaming a legitimate corner-store business that's been around since before he was in diapers? I feel so sorry for you.”

The door of the cafe opens, suddenly, and they both turn towards it, Stiles's heart hammering in his chest. And when a tall woman with a frighteningly-colored boa steps into the room, the young man's shoulders droop. 

Derek turns back with a small smirk. “I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that's not him.” The older man pauses, taking a look around the small cafe. “Are you going to be mean to him, too? If he shows up, that is.”

“No, I won't, and yes, he will,” Stiles spits angrily, finding that last ray of light as the clouds in his mind swirl to a close overhead. “And even if he doesn't, he has a good reason because he is kind and funny and everything you will never be or understand.” Stiles leans over the table, taking a shallow breath and directing the very last tendrils of his waning anger towards the man sitting across from him. “I don't expect you to know what it means to be caring and witty and charming because you, Derek Hale, are nothing but a suit.”

And there it is. His shining moment. Everything that he has ever wanted to say to Derek Hale spewed forth in one simple evening. Less than an evening, really. How long have they been here together? Ten minutes? Fifteen at most?

...Why doesn't he feel triumphant?

Derek's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, offering Stiles a pinched smile as he, once again, takes his briefcase in hand and stands from the table. “I guess that's my cue.” He hovers awkwardly for a moment before nodding. “Good night.”

Derek makes his way across the cafe and out into the chilly night, leaving Stiles sitting hurt and hopeless...

...and alone.

0 o 0 o 0

He doesn't show up. 

Stiles leaves the cafe more disappointed than he has ever been in his entire life. The flower finds a trashcan just outside the cafe, and the walk home is cold and full of insecurities. 

There must be a good reason. There has to be a good reason. Hell, it doesn't even have to be _good_. As long as he has a reason at all for...

...breaking Stiles's heart.

He gets home, and the apartment is empty. Matt won't be over tonight. He mentioned something about trying to set up a meeting with Laura Hale, who, unsurprisingly, hasn't been returning his phone calls. Stiles is sure that if he texted Matt, he would be over in a heartbeat. 

But Stiles doesn't feel like company tonight. Not after being....

God, he can't even say it. He can't because he just doesn't believe it, doesn't believe that his friend, or who he thought was his friend, would do anything like this. To him. 

He throws the book on the dining room table and resignedly opens his laptop, logging into AOL with only a small amount of hope. 

There is no pronouncement of “You've got mail!” as he is signed in. He clicks on the mailbox anyway—just in case. 

_You Have No Mail._

Stiles's eyes begin to water. No. _No_. Why should he cry over this? Why should he care that someone he doesn't even know didn't show up to someplace they said they were going to meet? That this person, who has given him advice and been there when he needed him and felt so freaking kind and charming and...and....

He closes his laptop in frustration as the tears well up and spill down his cheeks.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles arrives at the shop the next morning achy and exhausted. He'd fallen asleep at the table and barely woke in time to shower and run out the door. His eyes are puffy and red, despite the fact that he splashed cold water on his face, and he completely forgets to stop by Starbucks and pick up coffee.

Allison frowns as he approaches. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, fishing into his coat pocket for his keys and dropping them as he pulls them out. He curses and bends to pick them up.

“Did you walk here in your socks?” Allison demands.

Stiles pauses in finding the gate key on the keyring and looks down at his un-shoed feet. Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.

“Stiles, it's twenty degrees out! What were you—” 

He catches her eye, and she stares as him a moment, shoulders slumping as she says, “He stood you up.”

Stiles sniffles and shrugs a shoulder, finding the right key and unlocking the gate. “I wouldn't exactly put it that way.” He unlocks the shop door, and the two enter. “I mean, maybe something happened. Something terrible and unexpected and he couldn't....” Stiles stops in the middle of the sales floor, taking a shaky breath and asking, “What if he showed up, took one look at me and left?”

Allison puts a hand on his shoulder, gently leading him towards the office at the back. “Not even a possibility,” she says confidently. “You, Stiles Stilinski, are a catch.”

Stiles smiles wanly, sighing and hanging up his coat. He boots up the computer with a frown and leans against the desk. “What if there was an accident?”

“On the subway,” Allison offers helpfully, hanging up her own coat and sitting in the chair across from the desk.

“Maybe his train got trapped in the tunnels.”

“And no phone service.”

The bell above the door jingles, and Scott huffs in, a morning paper under his arm. “Morning!” he calls breathlessly.

“I bet he got sucked onto the tracks,” Allison says ominously. “The third rail!”

“Shit, he's toast,” Stiles says worriedly, trying not to picture the image.

Scott pauses midway into the office. “What happened?”

Stiles clears his throat. “He was...unable to make it.”

“Dude,” Scott says sympathetically. “He stood you up?”

Stiles narrows his eyes and purses his lips, brushing past Scott and out of the office. “Maybe,” he continues, beginning to set up the register with a little more force than necessary, “it was a car accident.”

“Those cab drivers are brutal,” Allison points out. “They hit something, and you slam into that plastic partition.”

“He could have a head injury!” Stiles says, outraged.

Allison rounds the counter, leaning over it conspiratorially. “Or he could be _unconscious_.”

Stiles closes the cash drawer and stares at the young woman with wide eyes. “In a coma.”

“In the ICU.”

“With a heart monitor beeping and that respirator thing hissing as it breathes for him.” Stiles, suddenly, feels horribly concerned. Maybe this started out as a way to make him feel better about why his cyber-friend hadn't shown up, but now just the thought of him lying in some hospital like a John Doe, all alone, makes him want to vomit.

Shit, he's going to have to call every hospital in the city just to be sure!

Scott, suddenly, makes a noise from the office, hurrying out and slapping the newspaper down on the counter with a wide-eyed look. Allison and Stiles lean over the paper, catching the large headline: _COPS NAB ROOFTOP KILLER!_

Stiles narrows his eyes at his best friend. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Dude, it seriously could be. This guy was arrested near the cafe.”

Allison sighs dramatically. “I guess that explains it.”

“He was in jail,” Scott says, pointing at the newspaper accusingly.

“And there was a phone....” Allison starts, the corners of her lips barely containing the smile she's hiding. She knows perfectly well this is bullshit. But Scott is just too easy to string along.

“But he only got one call, so he called his lawyer,” Scott finishes matter-of-factly.

“Stiles, you are so lucky.” The young woman places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in mock support.

Scott grabs his arm. “Dude, you could be _dead_.”

Stiles looks between them incredulously, shaking off their hands, stepping out from behind the counter, and beginning to straighten displays on the sales floor. “Guys, he is _not_ the freaking _rooftop killer_!”

Allison leans her elbows onto the counter and puts her chin in her hands. “How long did you sit in that cafe by yourself?”

“Not long,” Stiles lies. He'd been one of the only customers left by the time he'd decided to leave. The waiter had given him an empathetic look and told him his apple cider was on the house. And hadn't that just been a slap to the face. “Derek Hale came in.”

“Derek Hale?” she asks in disgust.

Stiles huffs harshly through his nose. “I don't want to talk about it.”

But, of course, that's when Lydia, Queen of Gossip and Questioner of Disastrous Dates, walks through the front door. Her sunglasses swivel upward, and she places a hand on one slender hip as a fine eyebrow quirks on her forehead. “So?”

Scott clears his throat. “He was, uh...unavoidably detained?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “He stood you up.”

Stiles grits his teeth, grabbing a stack of books and heading to the back of the store. They certainly don't go there, but that's where he's putting them because, good grief, he can't deal with these people right now. 

He can't deal with anyone.

Probably not ever again.

He wonders, for a moment, how much money he has saved and whether it's enough to become a recluse for the rest of his life.

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: I've been thinking about you..._

_You weren't there. You said you would be, and you weren't, and I felt so stupid just sitting there by myself until the cafe had nearly closed, and all I really want to know is: Why? Because I want to be angry with you, but really I'm just hurt and disappointed—mostly at myself. I guess that's how these internet things go, though._

_I was so excited to meet you and talk with you, and when you didn't show up, someone else did. Someone who has made my life a living hell since before I even knew his name, and you know what? Something happened. Somehow, I was able to channel your Jack-in-the-Box and say the exact thing I wanted to say at the exact moment I wanted to say it. And guess what? I felt awful. I felt a brief surge of self-assurance, sure, but after I said the things I said...I hated that I had said them. Just like you said I would. And even though I'm sure he's brushed off anything I said to him last night as a poor attempted insult of a dying business, he still didn't deserve it. I wish I was brave enough to apologize._

_Anyway, I was just hoping you had a reason—or even a shitty excuse—for not being there. I don't think you're the type of person to leave someone hanging like that. I guess the weird thing about being strangers is that you're more likely to talk about nothing than something. And I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many...somethings. So thanks._

0 o 0 o 0

Derek reads the email, and his chest swells with hope. Stiles Stilinski is still the same person he has always been. He's just...also someone Derek has known a lot longer as someone else, someone he can trust and tell jokes to and share secrets with. And he's torn, because he's almost certain that this, SHOPGUY, is how Stiles is really, not the cynical, defensive man he knows in real life. But, really, who wouldn't be cynical and defensive around the person who is putting them out of business?

Derek makes a decision, hits the reply button...

...and stares at the blank email for almost a full minute.

Miguel whines beside him, and Derek offers him a shrug. “What am I supposed to say?” He swallows and sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before placing his fingers over the keys. 

_I am in Vancouver_ he starts, offering Miguel a skeptical glance before shaking his head and erasing it.

 _I was in a meeting that I couldn't get out of, and then the electricity when out. And we were trapped on our floor with no telephone system. Or cellphone reception._ He glances at Miguel again, who blinks at him once then offers a low sound of disdain. _Amazingly enough._

Derek groans and deletes that as well, sitting back and staring at the blank email for a moment. SHOPGUY deserves more than some lie. _Stiles_ deserves more than some lie. Derek takes a breath and channels his inner METS57, and then words start to pour into his head.

_From: METS57  
Subject: Dear Friend..._

_I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am about last night, and, unfortunately, I can't explain to you why I wasn't there. But I beg you from the bottom of my heart to forgive me. You deserve much better than that. I know I would have felt the same if our situations were reversed, but I can't see that happening, as you're a much better person than I am._

_I feel awful you had to deal with this person, whoever they are, but I'm certain that whatever it is you said was provoked. And deserved. People don't always have control of what they say when they find themselves in stressful situations like that, and since I'm the one that caused you to be in that particular situation, I take full responsibility and all fault._

_Someday I hope you'll find it in yourself to forgive me, and I'll explain everything. But in the meantime, I'm still here._

_Talk to me._

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sits back in his office chair, looking out the window at the snow that billows by, the people that tighten their scarves and draw their coats further around themselves. He'll miss this, these lazy days, this cozy office, the filing cabinet and the bookshelf and even the slow-ass computer. 

“Stiles?” 

He turns. Allison, Scott, and Lydia are still sitting in front of the desk, looking at him expectantly. 

“Fight or fold, Dude?” Scott asks him, looking like he probably already knows the answer.

They all do.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and stares at his hands. “Close,” he says solemnly, nodding his head as if trying to confirm the decision with himself. “We're going to close.”

His friends nod as well. 

“It's the brave thing to do,” Allison declares, and Stiles can't help but smile.

“Thanks,” he says, “but I don't feel very brave.”

“You put up a good fight, Stiles,” Allison continues. “Anyone else would have closed the minute that superstore was announced.”

“Your mom would be proud, man,” Scott says quietly, him being one of the only ones who knew her almost as intimately as Stiles did.

“Thanks,” Stiles says again, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sits in the near-dark of his apartment at the kitchen table, barely moving when he hears a key scrape into the lock and the front door open. A light flips on, and Matt sucks in a tight breath.

“Jesus, Stiles, what the hell are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

“Sorry,” he says absently, offering the man a weak smile, “I was just thinking.”

Matt breathes heavily. “Yeah, I've, uh...been doing some thinking myself.”

“Oh?”

Matt swallows and nods, taking the seat beside him and interlocking his fingers on the table. “Stiles...I think you're a really wonderful person.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Stiles asks incredulously. “That's really how you want to start this conversation?”

“Stiles, please don't make this harder than it has to be,” Matt says seriously, and Stiles wants to gag.

“I'm not trying to—” He sighs in frustration, his shoulders slumping as he gestures for the other man to continue.

“I think you're a wonderful person,” Matt tries again, and Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, you're a wonderful person, too, Matt,” he drawls sarcastically.

“But I think that we just...don't quite fit.”

“You're breaking up with me,” Stiles states. 

“...Yeah.” Matt sighs, taking Stiles's hand and squeezing it. “Stiles, I'm so—”

Stiles sneezes, suddenly, coughing harshly into the crook of his elbow. 

The other's man's eyebrows draw together. “Are you sick?”

“I think so, but it's just, uh....” Stiles chews on his tongue a moment, closing his eyes and releasing a shaky breath. “I'm closing the store.”

Matt is quiet. “...You decided this today?”

“Yeah.”

“And I just broke up with you.”

Stiles huffs and smiles, his throat closing around the word as he repeats it. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” Matt curses, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, Stiles, I...I am so sorry. I don't even...We can do this tomorrow. Or-or next week, or something. I just... _Shit_.”

“Matt,” Stiles holds up a hand, shaking his head, “it's fine. Seriously, I mean...it was going to happen eventually, right?”

Matt watches him carefully, nodding as he says, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Stiles releases a harsh stream of air, linking his fingers behind his head and sitting back in the chair. “I guess we were just wrapped up in other things, huh?”

The other man looks guilty, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table. “Stiles....”

“It's cool,” Stiles says, genuinely surprised to find that he means it. “It's...It's good. You and I, we're different people. We deserve to be happy, right?”

“You aren't happy?” Matt asks in concern, fingers halting.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Stiles assuages, hands coming down to rest on the table. “I mean, we were...happy. Weren't we?”

“Sure,” Matt agrees with a shrug. “I definitely wasn't _un_ happy.”

Stiles purses his lips. “I think there's a difference between being happy and not being _un_ happy.”

The other man thinks about that for a moment. “I guess you're right.”

“So we weren't _un_ happy,” Stiles clarifies with a smirk. “We just weren't...happy.”

Matt returns the gesture. “Yeah.”

Stiles nods. “Is there someone else?” The lack of answer is all that Stiles needs, and he smiles. “Good for you. I hope they make you happy.”

“As opposed to not _un_ happy,” Matt says with a chuckle.

Stiles laughs, too. “Yeah.”

“How about you?” his now ex-boyfriend asks, shifting in his seat and staring at him curiously. “Is there someone else?”

Stiles looks down at his hands and frowns, picking at his cuticles and shaking his head slowly. “No,” he says with a sigh. “But...there's the dream of someone else.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek has waited for this moment with sweet satisfaction for quite some time: the moment when Stiles Stilinski, owner of the _just-won't-quit_ Shop Around the Corner and purveyor of children's dreams, walked into Wolf Books. Well, it isn't as sweet as he'd originally hoped, considering he finally knows who Stiles is...and the fact that he looks absolutely miserable.

Derek watches quietly from the second floor as the younger man follows the signs that lead him up the stairs and to the children's section, and suddenly he's nervous. This is a man who has known the business of books his entire life, and his opinion is kind of ridiculously revered amongst the book-couture. If Derek were to value trivial things such as constructive criticism...he thinks he might value this young man's above the rest.

Stiles finds a small table and seats himself, looking around with reserved scrutiny. The children's section alone is nearly one-and-a-half the square-footage of Shop Around the Corner, and Derek is pleased to say that their selection is more than decent. They have nearly every children's book worth mentioning (and some not so much), and if they don't, they can have it on back-order within the hour.

A woman, suddenly, stops a clerk near the table, asking the young man about “shoe books.” Derek rolls his eyes as the clerk looks absolutely lost, asking for more information that the woman clearly can't provide. 

Without hesitation, Stiles steps in. “Noel Streatfeild,” he says, sniffling and wiping at his nose. When the woman and the clerk turn to him, he elaborates further. “She wrote the shoe book series. Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Party Shoes...I'd start with Ballet Shoes.” He sniffles again, and Derek isn't altogether certain it's just a cold making the young man's eyes watery. “And maybe Circus Shoes. They're all just...great.”

“Right,” the woman says, giving Stiles a strange look before turning back to the clerk. “I'll have those ones.”

“Sure,” the clerk says, clearing his throat and looking at Stiles expectantly. “Um...What was the name of the author again?”

Derek groans in frustration. 

0 o 0 o 0

“I'm telling you, Stiles Stilinski is all anyone can talk about,” Laura gushes as she and Derek enter the elevator of their apartment building. “Everyone wants him, Der. He's probably got job offers up the wazoo.”

“I assume your name is in that pile,” Derek says, nodding politely to the elevator operator and holding up four fingers to indicate the fourth floor. There is another woman on the elevator as well, older and well-dressed. The small dog in her arms yips at them happily as they settle against the opposite wall.

“Of course it is,” Laura scoffs. “If you haven't offered that boy a job, then you're an idiot.”

“Guess I'm an idiot, then.”

“Duh.” Laura smirks. “He wouldn't take your offer, anyway, seeing as you're the one who—”

The elevator, suddenly, comes to a grinding halt, bouncing its passengers violently. The old woman shouts, and Laura grabs at Derek to keep her balance. 

“What the hell?” Laura demands, looking to the elevator operator. 

The man swallows nervously, looking back and forth between the elevator buttons and the flickering number above the door telling them they're somewhere between the second and third floor. “Um...I-It'll be just a m-moment, folks.” He breathes deeply a few times before opening the small box below the buttons and pulling out a phone, which he presses against his ear. “Hey, Marty...Yeah, looks like we're stuck...Uh, the fire department, I think...Yeah. Thanks, Marty.” He hangs up the phone and turns to the small group with an apologetic smile. “L-Looks like we just have to settle in for a b-bit until they get here.” 

One hour later has them sitting on the floor of the elevator playing with a deck of cards the old woman had produced from her purse, jackets and coats removed as sweat pours off their faces. 

“If I ever g-g-get out of here,” the operator says softly, laying down a card and sighing, “I'm g-gonna ask m-my girl to marry me.” He smiles and breathes as if a giant weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Derek returns the smile as the man looks at him, taking the phone that the man pulls from his pocket and studying the pretty blonde set as his wallpaper. “H-Her name's Maggie, and I just...She's great, you know? Sh-She puts up with me, so that's g-gotta be a plus, huh?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, handing the phone back and nodding. “That's great, man. Congrats.”

“If I ever get out of here,” the old woman starts, gently petting her dog's head with the hand that isn't holding her cards, “I'm going to call my sister. It's been six years since I spoke with her...I think it's about time—time, after all, isn't much. Not for a gal like me.”

Laura looks thoughtful for a moment before setting a card down. “I think if I get out of here, I'm gonna take the kids somewhere. A vacation.” She looks up and smiles at Derek. “Disneyland, or something.”

Derek smiles back, folding his own cards and setting the stack on the ground before pressing his back against the wall behind him. “If I ever get out of here....” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning and wracking his brain for something—anything. There has to be something he wants out of life...right? Something he's always wanted to do? People he's always wanted to meet? Places he's always wanted to go?

But the only thing that comes to him is Stiles's sad, hurt face as he sat in that cafe waiting for his own _'if I ever,'_ and the thought remains unfinished as the elevator lights, suddenly, flicker on, and the elevator begins to move.

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Last night I had a revelation..._

_The details leading up to this revelation are completely irrelevant, but let's just say that I found myself sitting beside a man who knew exactly what he wanted out of life...and I felt jealous. Jealous of a man who has so much less than me, who probably works long, hard hours doing the same thing day-in and day-out and more than likely gets paid very little to do it. As someone who was raised with a silver spoon in their mouth (I freely admit) and given every opportunity that most people only dream of having, I found myself wanting what he had._

_So this morning I packed my bags, and Miguel and I moved out of my sister's apartment._

_Change, they say, is a good thing._

_I hope they're right._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Re: Last night I had a revelation..._

_I wish change wasn't revered as such a good thing. I only ever hear people preach about change when something happens that can't be undone. Or when they're a politician. Change can be bad sometimes._

_Like the change I'm finding myself going through lately._

_The business that I didn't want to tell you about? It's a shop. I own a shop. (Surprise! My screen name lives up to its owner.) My mother owned it before she passed away, and it's amazing and wonderful and magical. And it's closing. In less than a month, it will be something else. Probably something depressing—like a Pink Berry._

_Change has caused me to relive the death of my mother, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and accept that nothing and no one will ever make me feel the way I felt when I stepped behind that counter and smiled at my mother's picture on the wall. In a small way, it made me feel like she was proud of me, like she was looking over my good work and smiling back in approval._

_My heart hurts today, and I just want a moment of peace. Without change._

0 o 0 o 0

The shop is quiet, dark. Empty. 

Stiles has never seen it like this, hasn't felt this way since losing his mother. Hell, he _is_ losing his mother. Again. He's holding her hand as she stares at him lovingly, knowingly. She's kissing the tears from his cheeks as she promises he'll be all right. 

_Everything will be all right._

She tells him her time in this place is over, but there will always be a part of her with him, there will always be smiles and laughter and comfort in the shop she leaves for him. 

_You'll get through this, Stiles._

She clutches him close and sings him the lullaby her mother had sung when she was a girl. 

_You're strong. And brave._

She rubs her cheek into his hair, humming weakly as her body begins to shake. 

_And I love you._

She breathes, she sighs.

_I love you._

And then she is gone.

“I love you, Mom,” he whispers, reaching up and taking the bell from the top of the door and letting it dangle from his fingers as he closes and locks the shop one last time. The gate is heavier in his fingers than he remembers as he lowers it over the place he knew so well for so long.

A sign hangs in the window, one Lydia had artfully crafted, that reads: _“Thank you for allowing us to be part of your lives.”_

The bell rings in his hand the whole way home.

0 o 0 o 0

Spring arrives as most everything in New York does—early and without warning. The sleet and cold of winter is there one day and gone the next, and Derek feels that time has finally given him the go-ahead.

And this is how he finds himself at Stiles's apartment, standing on the front stoop with a handful of brightly-colored snapdragons and pressing the buzzer beside the name 'Stilinski.' 

After a moment, Stiles's voice wavers through the intercom, sounding congested and completely miserable. “Who is it?”

Derek leans forward towards the speaker, hesitating before saying, “It's, uh...Derek Hale.”

“...What are you doing here?”

Derek sighs. He doesn't really know. But he can't just come out and say that. Can he? “I don't...really know. Um, can I come up?

There is a huff from the other end and a few mumbled words before Stiles says, “You know what? No. No, I think...I _don't_ think...No. That's not a good idea. I have—I have a c-...I have cold.” A violent sneeze sounds through the speaker, and Derek nearly takes a step back. Stiles coughs and sniffles. “Yeah, you hear that?”

“Uh-huh,” Derek confirms, trying his best to be patient as Stiles goes off on another nasally tangent about the medicine he's taking and his temperature and how often he's sleeping and how he's probably totally contagious so maybe Derek should just leave and possibly never come back. Derek rolls his eyes, stepping aside as someone behind him clears their throat. It's an old woman with a few bags of groceries. Derek quickly steps aside, offering a smile and his hand as she tries to juggle several things to get to her keys. She smiles back, placing the groceries in his hand then unlocking the door. 

Stiles is still talking, so Derek takes the opportunity to slip inside, carrying the groceries to the woman's door for her before heading down the hallway. Stiles lives only a few doors down, and Derek makes it just in time to hear the last of the young man's rant through the door. 

“...so I'd appreciate if you just went away.”

Derek knocks.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles startles as the knock sounds on his door, and he checks through the peep hole to find Derek waiting just outside. “Shit,” he hisses, looking down at himself. He's wearing only a pair of floral boxer shorts and one white sock. “Double shit.” Looking around, he finds the place an absolute mess—tissues and used bowls with crusted food and half-full glasses and opened medicine packages. “Triple fucking shit!”

Derek knocks again, and Stiles, scrambles. “Um...Just a minute!” He grabs a robe from the hat rack nearby—what the hell is that doing there?—and throws it on, running around the dining room and picking up dishes and tissues and shoving them where they, hopefully, won't be seen. He does one last check—crap—and tightens the belt on his robe before breathing as deeply as his congested nose will allow and opening the door. 

Stiles tries not to shift uncomfortably under Derek's gaze as the older man looks him up and down. “Hey,” he says with a sniffle.

“Hi,” Derek says, a soft smile taking his face. It almost makes him look...nice. 

Stiles shakes the thought from his head. “So, uh...Wh-What are you doing here again?”

Derek clears his throat. “I heard you were sick.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You put me out of business...and you're worried about me being sick?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles blinks rapidly and shakes his head. “So you, what, came to gloat or something? Offer me a job? Your sister already took care of that.”

“I heard,” Derek says, gritting his teeth. “I, uh, brought these for you.” He lifts the flowers in his hand.

Stiles's shoulders slump as he realizes how ridiculously rude he's been since Derek buzzed his door. “Oh,” he says guiltily, sighing in resignation and wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his robe. “Uh, thanks.”

Derek looks behind himself, taking a step towards kitchen and hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Did you want me to put them in some water, or something?”

“Uh...” Stiles swallows, looking between Derek and the kitchen a couple of times before nodding. “Sure. There's a vase under the sink.”

Derek nods and disappears into the kitchen while Stiles takes a seat at the dining room table, finding an unused tissue and blowing his nose loudly.

“Yuck,” he says quietly, putting his head down on the table and closing his eyes. 

“So,” Derek calls from the kitchen, “Scott and Allison send hellos your way.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, sitting up again and covering his mouth with the sleeve of his robe as he coughs. 

“They told me you were sick,” the older man explains, his footsteps quiet on the kitchen tile.

“How are they doing?” Stiles asks. He hasn't really had much time to speak with them since they found jobs at Wolf Books. They'd come over remorsefully before their interviews, begging Stiles's forgiveness, which, of course, he reassured them they didn't need. He wasn't going to keep them out of a job just because he has a grudge against the company that had closed his shop.

Derek steps back into the dining room, a vase full of snapdragons in hand. “I think they really like it there. You have to have a freaking Ph. D in children's literature to work in their department, but I think it's what makes them great. They're really making the store a better place.”

Stiles gently runs his fingers along the tiny snapdragon buds, smiling as they bring back memories of his childhood and his mother. “I love these.”

“I thought you might,” Derek says softly, a corner of his mouth quirking. “I wanted to find some Wolfsbane for you. Turns out it's pretty poisonous.”

Stiles snorts, swallowing before taking a quick breath. “You know, the Chinese still use it in traditional medicines, and the British used to use it as an anesthetic.”

Derek cocks his head. “That's...actually really interesting.”

The younger man frowns. “Don't patronize me.”

“I'm not,” Derek says quickly, raising his hands. “...Do you want some tea?”

“Uh...” Stiles looks towards the kitchen. “Sure?”

Derek nods and enters the kitchen again. “So, if you don't mind me asking...How did your date go?”

Stiles furrows his eyebrows and turns halfway in his chair. “Date?...Oh. You mean the cafe.”

“Yeah,” Derek calls over the sound of the sink. 

“Uh...Well, he....” Stiles swallows hard. He really doesn't want to have this conversation with this man. Really, really, really. Just...not. No. “Fine.” He sighs, rubbing at his face. “And, look, I know when you showed up, I was...”

“Charming,” Derek suggests, and Stiles laughs.

“No. Not charming.”

“Well,” Derek says, entering the kitchen and sitting in the chair adjacent to his, “you looked charming.”

Stiles can feel his face heating as he stares at the other man, wondering if he heard correctly. Derek Hale thinks he looked charming? Thinks he looked _charming_? What does that even mean? What the hell does charming _look_ like?

“Uh...I was awful. Mean. I didn't...I should apologize.”

The kettle in the kitchen whistles, and Derek stands, fingers brushing against Stiles's shoulder. “No need. Honey?”

Stiles takes a moment to realize that Derek has asked him a question, not called him an endearment. “Yeah. Sure.” Shit, he needs to hide. He picks up the vase of flowers and moves to the living room, clearing used tissues and cups and bowls from the surface and hiding them underneath before placing the flowers in the center. “I was upset that night.” He takes a breath and sighs. Forget it. “The guy I was there to see...He was late. And...he never actually showed.”

Derek enters the living room carrying a single cup and holds it out. “Oh? Sounds like a jerk.”

“He's not,” Stiles is quick to defend. “You don't know him and you've never met him, so don't make assumptions.”

“Sorry,” the older man says, sitting in the chair opposite him. “I just mean...anyone who'd willingly stand you up....”

He doesn't finish, and Stiles is left absolutely speechless. What the hell is this? What is Derek playing at? What is he doing here? Why had Stiles even let him into his apartment? Why...Why was Derek, suddenly, not the jerk that Stiles thought he was?

Derek chuckles, and Stiles realizes, with a mixture of embarrassment and horror, that he'd spoken aloud. “It's okay,” the older man assures. “I've been horrible to you. You kind of deserve to hate me.”

“I don't,” Stiles counters quickly, shaking his head and setting his tea on the table. “I don't hate you. I just...”

“You just...can't forgive me,” Derek says knowingly, nodding in acceptance. Stiles looks down at his hands, fingers intertwined. “Just like...Elizabeth.”

Stiles looks up. “What?”

Derek shrugs. “Elizabeth Bennet, _Pride and Prejudice_. She was too proud.”

Stiles shakes his head and scoffs. “You hate _Pride and Prejudice_.”

“Or was she prejudiced,” Derek continues distractedly as if he hadn't heard him, “and Mr. Darcy was proud? I can never figure that out.” They stare at one another for a moment before Derek's face contorts into a look of what Stiles thinks might be shame. “It wasn't...personal, you know.”

Stiles's anger flares. “What the hell does that even mean? 'It wasn't personal.' Yeah, it wasn't personal to you. That doesn't mean it wasn't personal to me. That was my mother's store, and a lot of people liked it, so it was personal to a lot of people, Derek. You can't just freaking say things like that and expect the world to forgive you.”

Derek looks taken aback. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“And anyway,” Stiles continues, his mouth continuing on even though his brain is telling him he's made his point, “why the hell _aren't_ things more personal? I mean, shouldn't they be? Shouldn't things start by being personal?” Derek stares at him with wide, thoughtful eyes. “Uh...I think all this talking is making me dizzy. I should go to bed.” He stands and Derek stands with him, hands raised as if ready to catch him if he topples over. Stiles grabs the vase on the table and clutches it to his chest, his nose wiggling as teasing tendrils of the flower's scent try to squeeze into his congested nostrils. “Um...I may have asked this already...but what are you doing here again?”

The older man pauses, looking almost hopeful as he says, “I, uh, think I'm asking to be your friend.”

Stiles blinks and wavers on his feet. “Oh.” He turns and heads towards the bedroom without another word. Derek follows him, setting his mug of tea on the nightstand as Stiles crawls into bed and kicks his feet under the covers.

“So, have you heard from that guy since the cafe?”

Stiles sniffles and rests back against the pillows crowded against the headboard. “Uh, yeah. We're still friends. I think.”

“You still like him, then?”

“Sure.”

“So...what's the hold-up? Why haven't you two run off into the sunset already?”

Stiles hesitates. “Well, uh...I don't...actually know him.”

One of Derek's eyebrows arches high on his forehead, a small smile quirking his lips. “Seriously?”

“Uh, we only...We met...God, this is so stupid.”

Derek holds up a finger. “I'm gonna take a shot in the dark and guess...online.”

Stiles hides his face in his hands, slowly sinking further into the blankets. “Oh, God.”

Derek laughs, standing and starting to arrange the blankets around Stiles, fixing the mashed pillows behind his head so they're more comfortable. “Maybe I'm over-stepping my bounds here,” he starts, grabbing the box of tissues off the floor and placing them to Stiles's left, “but, I think you should try again. Meeting him, I mean.” Derek sits beside him, looking up and contemplating his own words. “Actually, no, I take that back. Why would you want to meet someone you like?”

Stiles frowns. “Dude, that's completely—”

Derek, suddenly, leans forward, his fingers hovering just over Stiles's mouth. “Listen. I know you can't help yourself when you're around me, so let me just keep you from saying something you'll only regret later.” 

Stiles swallows loudly, nodding slightly as he watches the other man with wide eyes. Why the hell does this turn him on? Seriously, ew.

Derek lowers his hand, eyes flickering to Stiles's mouth like he almost has the same idea. But he leans away, standing and backing away towards the bedroom door. “Feel better soon, Stiles. You wouldn't want to miss New York in the Spring.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says dazedly, blinking quickly. “Uh, thanks. For the flowers.”

“Sure. See you around.”

“Bye. Derek.”

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: I've been thinking lately..._

_I know this didn't really work out the first time, and I still don't know what happened. Not that I blame you. I've gotten over it, really. And now I'm totally rambling. But..._

_I think we should meet._

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Re: I've been thinking lately..._

_I agree. We should definitely meet, and I promise that we will. But I'm in the middle of something. I'll let you know._

0 o 0 o 0

“In the middle of... _something_.” 

“Yeah.”

“No explanation? Just... _something_?”

“That's what he said.”

Derek laughs in the middle of the coffee shop he'd found Stiles in, and the younger man revels in the sound. It's hearty and deep and not something he'd expect from the corporate monger—which is kind of harsh. The man had been over practically everyday that Stiles had been sick—which was over a week—and the more time that Stiles spends with Derek, the less he finds to hate about him. For instance, the older man doesn't just eat the hearts of children and drink the blood of small rodents....

“Yeah,” Derek says, wiping at his eyes. “Uh, it sounds like he's married.”

Stiles chokes on his coffee. “Wh-What? No! No, he's...There's no way!”

“Yep. Married. Probably with kids. Three or four, at least.”

The younger man laughs. “Shut up!”

“Well, have you ever asked him?

“No, but...you'd think it'd be something that would come up in conversation, especially if we were talking about meeting.”

Derek drags in a breath through his teeth, shaking his head. “I dunno, Stiles. There's a lot of creeps on the internet. Maybe he just wants to hook up.”

Stiles scoffs. “Impossible. No. He's not...No.”

0 o 0 o 0

_From: SHOPGUY  
Subject: Sooooo..._

_This is probably a really awkward question for both of us, and I hate to have to ask, but...are you married?_

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: Re: Sooooo..._

_What? Are you serious? I mean, do you really think I wouldn't mention I was married? Are your friends putting you up to this? Are they filling your head with doubts or something?_

_Come on, you know me._

0 o 0 o 0

“That's not an answer,” Derek says, shoving another french fry into his mouth and licking ketchup from his thumb.

Stiles sits across from him at an outdoor cafe, looking completely and utterly annoyed, and he loves it. He loves being able to push these buttons in the young man, knowing what's going on behind the scenes rather than trying to figure it out.

“Yeah, it is,” Stiles counters, taking a sip of water.

“No, it's not.”

“It is, and you know it. He knew exactly what I was asking and _who_ was asking, thank you very much for that, by the way.” Stiles narrows his eyes before taking a gigantic bite of his hamburger.

“Yeah, fine, he figured out it wasn't really you who wanted to know...but he didn't answer the question.”

Stiles finishes chewing before wiping his mouth with his napkin and sitting back with a sigh. “No, I guess not.”

Derek smushes a few fries into the mound of ketchup on his plate. “I bet he's old.” He nods to himself as Stiles laughs. “Yeah, he's ancient.”

Stiles shakes his head and shrugs. “I don't...care.”

“Really?” Derek asks, shoving the fries into his mouth and chewing a moment. “You really don't care he's older than dirt? So old he carts around an oxygen tank? So old he has to have a nurse follow him around with a medical bag and a bib?”

“That is ridiculous,” Stiles says, laughing despite the insults.

“You think so? What's his email address?”

Stiles, suddenly, looks very uncomfortable. “Uh...”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Oh, please, I'm not gonna chat the guy up. I don't want a grandpa-boyfriend.”

“Fine,” the younger man sighs, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers restlessly. “It's, uh, METS57.”

Derek makes a thoughtful sound. “See? Fifty-seven. He's fifty-seven years old.” Stiles bats at him, and Derek sits back, linking his hands behind his head. “Fifty-seven...acne scars on his face.”

“The number of people who think he looks like Robert Downey, Jr.,” Stiles counters, one eyebrow raised.

Derek is quick to retort. “Fifty-seven people who think he looks like Robert Downey, Sr.”

Stiles laughs. “God, why did I even tell you?”

“Fifty-seven tattoos...”

“That could be cool.”

“...of the names of his ex-wives...”

“Oh, come on, man.”

“...that he pays alimony to.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles says, kicking out underneath the table and catching the other man just below the knee. 

“Hey, don't be mad at me because your guy is broke,” Derek says with a laugh, rubbing at his leg. “Oh, I was going to ask—how's your book coming?”

Stiles lights up, and Derek can't help the smile that stretches across his face. When Stiles gets excited, the world around him just seems...better. It's wonderful and amazing and brilliant. And why the hell can't this just be his life? Forever?

“Oh man, it's just...it's amazing,” Stiles says, gesturing wildly. “Seriously, I can't believe I never had the idea to write before.”

“I can't believe no one's suggested it before,” Derek says seriously. “I mean, it just...suits you.”

“You know, I think...I think it was _him_ , METS57, that made me want to write at all,” Stiles admits, and Derek can't help but feel a swell of pride. “I wouldn't have even bothered if it hadn't been for him.”

“You mean Mr. Fifty-Seven Indecent Exposure Convictions?”

Stiles laughs. “Try: Mr. Fifty-Seven Reasons I Lie Awake At Night.”

“Damn,” Derek says with a shake of his head. “Can't really compete with that, huh?”

Stiles looks at him strangely, shrugging and nodding. “So, I, uh...want to say it's weird that I keep bumping into you lately...but it's actually been kinda...nice.”

The older man smiles, ducking his head and nodding. “Yeah. I've liked hanging out. Gets me away from...work.”

“Yeah.”

“So, um, did you want to...maybe bump into me later this week?”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, his eyes searching for...something. “Sure, why not?”

“Saturday? About noon? We could try that Vietnamese place by your apartment.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing.

Derek nods. “Okay.”

0 o 0 o 0

_From: METS57  
Subject: How about meeting on Saturday?_

_There's this garden near Riverside Park on 91st. How does four o'clock sound? Miguel and I will be there._

_Promise._

0 o 0 o 0

“Today?” Derek asks, feigning surprise as he licks curry sauce from his spoon. His tongue is on fire, and it's wonderful.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, pushing his rice around his plate with a nervous energy.

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” the younger man repeats, trying for a smile and sort of halfway getting there before giving up and pressing his lips together tightly.

“Hmm. That would mean he's probably from around your area.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “I know...Makes me wonder if I've seen him before...”

Derek wipes his mouth with a napkin, trying to think of some way to relieve the tension Stiles is emanating in waves. “What if you've seen him every day and didn't know it?”

Stiles shrugs noncommittally. “He could be anyone.”

The older man leans forward and stage whispers: “He could be our waiter.”

Just as he says it, their waiter, a tall, skinny teenager with braces, appears, smiling at them both and asking if they need anything else. Stiles straightens in his seat and stares while Derek laughs behind his hand.

0 o 0 o 0

They're walking towards Stiles's apartment when Derek decides to have the conversation he's been meaning to have for quite some time—a conversation he wishes he could have had with the younger man a long time ago.

“Well,” he starts, shoving his hands into his pockets, “he couldn't have timed this any better.”

Stiles frowns. “What do you mean?”

Derek shrugs. “Well, you're still young, but...you're at that age where most people find someone they want to be with, start a family, fall in love...I'm not saying you wouldn't find someone else if the two of you don't work out, but I have to say that you both seem...perfect for each other. I don't see why you wouldn't hit it off.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles says absently. 

“You know,” Derek says after a beat, stopping as they reach Stiles's apartment building and standing in front of the young man, “sometimes I wonder....”

Stiles swallows, eyes wide. “...What?”

“I wonder...If I hadn't been Wolf Books, and you hadn't been the Shop Around the Corner, and you and I had just...met.” He watches the young man carefully, hopefully. God, this is stupid, why didn't he just tell him? Why didn't he just say something at the cafe that night?

“Yeah.” The younger man looks down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Derek takes a shallow breath and dives in head first. “I would have asked for your number,” he says, and Stiles looks up at him in surprise, lips parted slightly. “And I wouldn't have been able to wait a whole minute before calling you and saying: 'Hey, how about some coffee? Or dinner? Or…something? Anything?'”

Stiles releases a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Derek—”

But Derek keeps going because the dam has finally broken and everything he's wanted to say for so long is just flooding into the back of his throat and pouring past his tongue and teeth and probably destroying any chance he ever had with this silly boy. “And we'd never have been rivals. And the only thing we'd fight about would be which movie to go see on a Thursday night.”

“Thursdays are the best days to see a movie,” Stiles chokes, his eyes swimming even as he shakes his head again.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees with a dumb grin and a nod. “No crowds.”

“Popcorn tastes better.” 

“The floors aren't so sticky.”

“You can get away with making out in the back row.”

Silence hangs between them. 

“Stiles—”

Stiles draws in a shuddering breath. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder as the young man tries to step around him. “Let me just...How?” Stiles raises his chin and looks at him expectantly, eyebrows furrowing as a tear breaks loose and rolls down his cheek. “How can you forgive this guy? This guy that you don't even _know_? And not...me?” Stiles looks torn, his gaze flicking back and forth between Derek's hopeful eyes. “Damn it, Stiles, I wish...I wish you would.” 

Stiles's chin trembles, and he leans forward, placing a kiss on the corner of Derek's mouth. It's sweet and warm and...not enough. Derek turns his head slightly to capture those lips, but Stiles is already pulling away. 

“I...really have to go,” he whispers, side-stepping the older man and starting up the stairs to his apartment building.

“Yeah,” Derek says to the air in front of him, wavering on his feet slightly and running a hand down his face. “You, uh, don't want to be late.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles leaves his apartment building with a mixture of feelings. He wants so badly to meet this person that he connected with online, this person who is understanding and caring and _real_ , dammit, no matter what anyone says. He's real and Stiles knows he's real because...because....

Well, just because.

On the other hand, there's Derek, too. And over the last few weeks, Stiles has come to realize that Derek is also understanding and caring and real. _More_ real, in fact. 

So as excited as he is to meet this person, Stiles is also dreading it. Because he can't quite figure out his feelings towards Derek. There's still an awful lot of resentment...but that's slowly been dissipating. Even disappearing...

Stiles wants to hurry, even going so far as to speed up his pace as he makes his way down the sidewalk. But he forces himself to slow down, walk steadily instead of the erratic loping that would probably get him a few strange glances.

Before he knows it, he's found the path that will lead him to the garden, and he follows the curve around the park, holding his breath. The garden is empty. Which is fine. It's only 3:50. Stiles had rushed a bit, and who says everyone has to be on time anyway? He just hopes...

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes. He just hopes this isn't a repeat of the cafe. He doesn't think he could stand it. Five minutes pass, and the nervousness builds. Five more minutes...Shit, why did he think this would work out? Why did he put all his hope into this? Why—

“Miguel!” someone shouts, and it's...familiar. Stiles stops breathing, turns to where the voice came from, and watches as a golden Labrador Retriever comes bounding around a stone pillar at full speed. “Miguel!”

And then...it's him.

It's _him_ , and _of course_ it's him.

It's always been him.

It could never be anyone else.

Derek's pace is fast as he tries to catch up with Miguel— _God, his dog's name is Miguel_ —but slows when their gazes meet. Stiles wants to cry and laugh and shout and smile until his face hurts; he can't decide. Derek walks slowly—too slowly—until he stops right in front of Stiles, looking nervous and hopeful and so very, very relieved.

“Don't cry, Shopguy,” Derek says softly, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping tears from Stiles's cheeks the young man didn't even know he was crying. 

“Derek....”

“I'm sorry,” Derek says abruptly, shaking his head. “That sounds stupid, I know, but...I never apologized. I felt like it would mean so little, coming from the asshole who put you out of business, and I know, I know, I can't do anything to make up for it short of giving you back your shop—and unfortunately, I can't do that. But I just wanted you to know that I'm not working for my uncle anymore. I'm taking back my job with my sister and—”

Stiles raises a hand, fingers hovering over Derek's mouth and stopping the man's rant. “I...Derek, I....” 

Derek's relieved look changes to worry, and the younger man can't help the smile that breaks across his face.

“I wanted it to be you,” Stiles says, his voice husky. He probably looks like a complete mess. The lump in his throat rises onto the back of his tongue and he nearly chokes on the words. “I've wanted it to be you so badly.”

Derek smiles so widely, and Stiles thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful. And then they're kissing, and the world falls away and Stiles sees everything he'd ever imagined kissing METS57 would be. 

Fifty-Seven Million Stars.

Fifty-Seven Million Sparks.

Fifty-Seven Million Fireworks. 

Mr. Fifty-Seven Million Years I Want To Spend With You, Derek Freaking Hale.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are interested....Johan Santana is a Venezuelan Major League Baseball starting pitcher, who pitched for the New York Mets from 2008 to 2012. On June 1, 2012, Santana threw the first no-hitter in New York Mets franchise history against the St. Louis Cardinals. 
> 
> His number was 57. :)


End file.
